All righty! Here's the unofficial alternate ending for those Solomon-lovers out there. It's (naturally) Solomon-centric, and even WTF-ier than the previous one. XD It starts in the same manner as the previous chapter, and goes totally haywire from that point. I mainly scrapped it because it was too heavy on surrealistic content, so I wasn't sure it'd be believable or not.

All comments are appreciated! ;)

And where was I, while you were in arms of your loyal Chevalier?

Home safe?

My life, my home, was with you. The day you left me, I died as I should have done, that night I drank Diva's blood. Perhaps, in a way, that fortune-teller was right about me all along. Perhaps I really was dead. Perhaps, before meeting you, I always had been.

But if that is true, angel, then you've killed me twice over.

And if I had the choice, I know I'd still crawl back and beg you for more.

Love's a terrible thing.

The night I returned to Prague, I couldn't cry. I didn't have the tears for it. Dead men don't shed tears. Perhaps you felt the same way, when you were without Haji? Perhaps his presence sustained you all along. Wasn't that what you said to me, back in Berlin? That he gave you something I never could?

Yourself.

I wish I could hate you for going back to him. But I can't. Because I understand how you felt.

I understand, because I felt the same thing for you.

Better to die for something you believe in, than spend the rest of your life feeling nothing. Right?

I'm in Nepal right now. I'm outdoors, with mountains everywhere. The air is cold, but I can't feel it. I'm trying to imagine you beside me. Your nose is red, and there's an ermine collar tickling your cheeks. You're smiling at me, the way you used to. That smile that made everything around me bloom.

The more I imagine it, the less I want to do what I came here for.

And the more I want to do it.

There is a winding gorge below me. From this height, it looks almost like a ribbon. Small and thin enough to loop around my finger.

But the drop from this point would kill even a Chevalier.

I don't know how I got here. I should never have let Nathan leave me alone here. I should never have let him drag me along in the first place. But I had to get away from Prague. I can't stand being in that flat anymore. The entire place screams of your absence. The silence is deafening.

The first few days, I prowled the rooms, calling for you and beating at the walls, you know? I would've given anything to be able to hold you again. To see you. I almost wished I could sleep. But there's another cruel joke immortality played on me. I have no way to shut my mind off. I have no way to ever stop remembering you, aching for you.

It will be this way for all eternity.

At night, I crawled into your bed. The sheets still smelt of your perfume. The cinnamon and chocolate one, remember? Your mouth tasted like that, the first night we made love. From the cocoa I gave you—the one you thought I'd meant to poison you with?

You always had such a low opinion of me. But then, it was mostly warranted.

There's a fine line between courting surrender and courting disaster. Isn't there?

I pictured I was back to that night. To feeling your little fingers in my hair and your sweet skin on my lips. I had never imagined such bliss as I knew then. You gave me everything I ever wanted. Gave me more than I knew I wanted.

I could have drifted on that memory for decades.

When I came back to my senses, the pillowcase was soaked. There were tears everywhere. I'm still not sure how they started. I'm not sure they were even mine. But who else's could they be? The room kept blurring, and my face was wet. No matter how many times I scrubbed it with my hands, it stayed wet.

And it struck me, all over again, that you were gone.

I wanted to die then.

I wish I could hate you for leaving me. But I can't. Looking back on it, you never promised me anything, except what you gave me.

And I promised only to love you always, to try and keep you happy.

I suppose I failed at that. Let you down utterly.

But I never stopped loving you.

Does that count for something? Can a promise be broken and kept, both at once?

I have no idea. But I suppose that's my great talent, paradoxes.

Chevalier or traitor. Black or white.

Dead or alive.

You said you loved me, that night. You said I'd always have a place in your heart. I suppose that should give me some solace. But really, it makes everything worse. I can't survive on table-scraps of your affection. It's always been the whole banquet or nothing for me.

I love you. I want you to always belong to me. I never want you to think of Haji again.

Except now that you're back with Haji, you're probably thinking of nothing else but him.

And I know how that feels too.

Because I felt it too, every moment I was with you.

The wind's whispering. It sounds almost like your voice. But then, I hear your voice everywhere. You're all around me, poisoning the very air I breathe.

And each second, I need you more and more.

I can feel my mouth moving. A pressure against my lips. It takes me a minute to realize what I'm doing.

I'm smiling.

Which is odd, because I don't feel happy at all.

A paradox.

Walking into midair is a paradox too. Wind whispering in my ears, at the same time screaming, roaring, also a paradox. I'm falling, and at the same time, it is like I'm flying. The air is empty, yet it presses up against me like a physical pressure. And with every heartbeat, the gorge below gets bigger and bigger.

And my smile grows wider.

I always used to have dreams of falling. Air rushing all around me, whipping my hair and clothes. The ground below, getting closer with every breath. But I'd always wake up, just before I hit the bottom. I never got to see what was on the other side.

This time, I think I'm going to find out.

I'd like to wake up at last.

"…Wake up."

Images darted out of his mind like little silverfish, too quick to close his fingers on.

"Wake up."

Names, faces, all melted into fog.

"Wake up, please."

Voices looped around him in a spiral that made him dizzy. He winced, trying to shake them off. The disorienting shift in location—no more tall mountains. No numbing despair. He wasn't tumbling through blackness anymore. Light shone through his closed eyes.

"Sir? Wake up, please. We've arrived."

A female voice was speaking to him. All prior images slid from his consciousness, new sensations intruding. Dull hiss of airplane air-conditioners. The ghostly scents of all the humans who'd occupied the first-class section. Outside, he could make out the dim roar of vehicles.

He opened his eyes.

Where—?

Ah yes.

Vietnam. At the airport, for his visit to Karl at the Lycee.

"Sir?"

He smelt the perfume overlaying the flight attendant's fatigue. Blinking, he met her eyes.

"—Yes?"

"Sir? Are you all right?"

"Mm. Yes, I—"

Why did he feel so strange? As if he wasn't supposed to be here, as if he'd awoken from some massive bender, confronted by a lost slice of time.

"Sir?"

He blinked, shaking the disorientation off.

"Pardon me. I must have dozed off."

The sedatives I took before this trip must were more potent than I realized.

The woman's tense expression eased. "That's all right It was a long flight. But we need to start the clean up now. "

"Of course. My apologies for the bother."

"It's no problem. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Absolutely. Thank you for waking me."

He smiled this time, and she did too. Not exactly flirting, but her eyes lingered.

He never tired of what he could do with his smile, what it always came in use for. But he preferred its use for people of influence, for that gave him power. This woman was of no consequence—he had little interest in human women for their own sakes. As Cinq Fleches' CEO, he attracted them in droves.

And there was only one woman who would ever possess his heart.

His Queen, asleep in her cocoon.

Diva.

Already her memory made him flare, longing to inhale her scent, hear her laughter. Her presence in Vietnam, even in hibernation, ignited his Chevalier's instincts like the most potent of aphrodisiacs.

Brother Amshel said she was scheduled to awaken within this month.

I suppose I can afford to be patient for just a little longer.

Straightening up, Solomon frowned. The lucid 'dream' he'd experienced during the trip seeped back into his consciousness. Its details so vivid on the tip of his tongue, yet ungraspable.

What was the dream about… ?

It wasn't the first time he'd sedated himself to endure the torpor of plane journeys. It kept his impatience tamped, helped stave off unnecessary thought. And each time, he'd had this strange… hallucination quite frequently.

Of marrying to someone who wore Diva's face. Of standing at the edge of death, crashing into blackness. Endless struggle, desire, despair and loss.

But when the sedative wore off, the dream always slid from his consciousness. Dates and details all garbling to white noise. He was left with only a peculiar breathless sensation—as if something vital was about to happen. No way to tell whether it was a calamity or a boon.

Only knew that whatever it was, it would change his life forever.

He had no idea what it meant. No idea who the Diva look-alike even was. He strongly suspected it was just Diva herself—a manifestation of his subconscious longing to see her.

He didn't think about it much. He had more important things to deal with.

Work kept you centered, after all. Contemplation did not.

Rising from his seat, he felt his muscles sigh with relief. He disliked sitting in airplanes, no matter how luxurious the seating or accommodating the staff. But he enjoyed the atmosphere of airports—he was susceptible even now to their transient aura. Large crowds always roused his appetite.

It was the same thing for Diva.

Smiling faintly, Solomon recalled the first time he'd taken Diva into the crowded New York subways. His Queen had squealed in glee as the downtown express had whooshed in. Smiled even wider when they'd slipped among the warm press of bodies within. They'd fed off at least three straphangers where they stood, and the oblivious crowd had held the poor fools up long after he and Diva made their exit somewhere near Brooklyn.

Later, at their five-star-hotel, Nathan had entertained them by reading the reports from the newspaper in funny high-pitched voices. Diva had clung to Solomon's arm and laughed like a hellcat.

Like mama, like son, Nathan had teased.

Nathan…

Why do I feel as though I had a very important talk with him?

Why do I feel as though… I shouldn't be here at all?

Scratch that. The latter sensation was a default mode. He'd felt it since before he even became a Chevalier.

But then... why this sudden queasy displacement? Like deja vu, yet not. Even now, in his mind's eye, amidst all other dim recollections, he had a vivid image of pink lace and warm little fingers. Of waltzing someone—Diva-and-yet-not-Diva—under bright chandeliers. Feeling, for the first time in decades, happy and alive.

But how could that be? He racked his brain, fighting to remember, but memory eluded him.

The ringing of his cellphone intruded.

Checking the number, Solomon answered calmly. "Hello?"

"Solomon—I hear you've landed in Vietnam?"

"Hello, Van. Yes, I am at the airport. I had some business that needed seeing-to."

"Concerning Delta67?"

"Well, in a way. Yes."

It wasn't the case. But he wouldn't tell Van so. It was cumbersome, being honest all the time. He let these humans keep that particular 'virtue'.

"Will you be overseeing the results of our experiments? I've been trying to contact you in hope of bringing you to the research building. We have been making considerable headway."

Solomon smiled. Ah, this again.

Van was his public barometer for the Delta67 project—capable and enterprising. But he could really be such a pest. Nitpicking each detail. Solomon's treatment of him was a mildness that verged on indifference. Delta67's trivialities were of no real interest to him. He was far more attracted to its long-term results.

A world overrun completely with Chiropterans. Entire civilizations toppled by our kind.

A world that functions on the pulse of Diva's song.

It sounded delicious. Invigorating. But he couldn't let himself be as absorbed in it as Amshel was. Couldn't bring himself to be absorbed in anything, really. Indifference clouded his every hour and thought. Time felt meaningless, as did much else in this life.

He never thought about it much. It seemed so humdrum, so clichéd, to feel that way. Like Death brandishing a frying pan.

He had everything that an ambitious man would want, after all. He had superiority—for the last few years, his company was the undisputed leader of the industry. He had fame—his publicity agents had ten thick albums of articles and clippings about his financial exploits. He had money—enough to indemnify luxury for the rest of his life.

Any minute now, I'll smile and feel happy for myself.

He didn't. He felt nothing.

On the phone, Van was fussing about the superfluous Lycee gala. Solomon listened with one ear. His mind had shifted beyond that—to Karl, and to his strange behavior of late.

His brother had always been the dark horse of their family; more experiment than kindred. Amshel considered him of little business use because Karl was too impulsive. James was leery of him, and his joyless demeanor bored Nathan. To Diva, Karl was nothing more than another vein to sink her teeth into.

Solomon had watched the combined alienation take its toll on Karl. Then after Vietnam, when Karl had lost his arm to Saya, the woman Solomon had never met, yet heard so much about, the incident had scarred him forever. He'd retreated as if into an encasing of silence.

Nonetheless, Solomon was determined to draw Karl from his shell. Amshel often said an unfocused ally risked losing the entire mission—and Solomon agreed. Since their earliest years, he'd taken the role of something like a backer for Karl—or was restraining-bolt the better word? He took Karl's failings personally, almost like a real brother than a surrogate. Tendered excuses for him, guided him toward better paths.

A terminal Savior complex, Amshel often sneered.

Whatever the case, Solomon refused to lose hope in Karl. Time and patience would make him better, ease his isolation. He was certain of it.

Is it Karl whose isolation you wish to ease? Or simply your own?

He brushed the idea off.

Honestly, Karl had been acting very strange these days. Even more withholding than usual. Solomon was sure he was hiding something.

But what?

His thoughts drifted over possibilities, settling on the container Karl held within the school. And what that container held.

Diva.

Why would Karl want to move her so urgently to the research farm?

He intended to find out.

"I'll provide you directions to reach the school building, so you don't get caught in traffic," Van was saying on the phone.

Solomon half-smiled. "There is no need. I'm familiar with the routes here, Van. I'm certain I can reach the Lycee unscathed."

"There's been a recent spell of rainfall. Extremely inconvenient. It's blocked off so many roadways. If only the government here would get their infrastructure in order, they could—"

Solomon barely listened. Van had a habit of trying to teach him the names of streets and avenues wherever their new business was being conducted, as if Solomon were a tourist.

Idiot.

Solomon could scan any city from a height no man could achieve without wings. He knew his goddamned way around.

The Lycee ball was an annual event—but as with all else, a party was never just a party for a good businessman. It was a place to see and be seen, make contacts, make deals, or break them.

When Solomon arrived at the ballroom, it was brilliantly-lit, filled to its capacity with human flesh. The hall was a mass of flowers and starched linen tables, the band playing to entertain the chattering guests. Adults decked out to the nines, boys and girls with colorful dresses and dark suits, clashing perfumes and colognes.

Trust fund babies. Financial aid cases. Daughters or sons of close colleagues.

One inhalation told him which one was the offspring of whom, which one had eaten what before arriving here, which one was on the rag, which one had been crying, vomiting, smoking, drinking—and when and how much.

Again, Solomon felt a strange deja vu invade. As if he were stepping into a door to the past. Or the future.

It was Rosh Hashanah tonight. His mother always told him, as a child, that on this day his fate was being jotted down, his life and destiny decided. Solomon had never paid much attention to the concept. Nonetheless, a part of him still sometimes hoped, in a somber way, that something good was going to happen to him.

That he might, perhaps, wake up.

He made his way calmly through the crowded banquet hall, nodding at several better-known acquaintances, stopping to speak to a select few others. He felt the tug of the rest of the room, wanting him near them.

As always, he had to flick on an internal switch when he was at these parties—one that made him a magnet to the eyes. People gravitated instantly to his company. Indeed, as he passed, the calls trumpeted, "Solomon—I had no idea you were going to be here! Solomon—we haven't seen you in so long! Solomon, where were you hiding these months? Solomon…"

Often, he felt as if he were on a stage, fulfilling a particular role. Sometimes the aloof adult, sometimes the playful child. He nodded, introduced, heard introductions, corresponded, tallied details, shook hands with a firm grip and spoke in clear, crisp, businesslike tones. Or with others he chuckled, smiled, sweet-talked, made light remarks, squeezed fingers and met gazes as he lowered his voice, a sort of theatrical closeness.

Stepping near the dancefloor, he glanced at the wide French windows. The night air rushed in, moist and sweet, and he shut his eyes, longing to drown in its cusp.

That dream…?

What was it about that dream that I can't seem to shake off?

It wasn't just the flutter of wind on his skin that felt familiar. It was something about this room, this particular evening, that made him feel as if he'd been here before.

Was meant to be here.

Then again, parties like these were sine qua non to his lifestyle. Why shouldn't any gala feel blasé to him?

A sudden squeal pierced his ears.

"Look! A blue rose!"

What?

Solomon suddenly found himself the main attraction to a throng of giggling teenage girls. Their gazes pinging on him, bright as fireflies.

Dear God. Not this again.

He was conscious of his good looks. He took for granted the way people's eyes drank him in, appraising and welcoming. But in a crowd, it was very different. Didn't matter if the staring was done with practiced discretion, like in the boardroom, or with open interest, like in the nightclubs.

Ogling was ogling. And it made him feel like an insect in a belljar.

"Then is he the Phantom?'" a teenage girl whispered.

"He must be—because he's just so incredibly gorgeous!"

Solomon glanced their way. Honestly. Did they not realize he was within earshot?

"Aaah! He looked at me!"

"No! He looked at me!"

"Liar—it was me!"

His fingers twitched. He lifted them automatically to comb the hair from his face. He was beginning to wish he had something to hold in his hands. A drink, a cellphone, the arm of a female escort. Anything.

Letting his expression betray none of his discomfort, he studied the room for an exit. A blue-gowned blonde with a minx-face caught his eyes. He considered asking her to dance, just to keep his attention centered

But then a scent reached him. A piercing aroma over the plethora of excess perfume and human blood. Something vaguely familiar, yet like nothing he'd ever smelled before.

Solomon went perfectly still. His eyes shifted beyond the blonde, to the girl standing a few paces behind her. Short dark hair. A bouffant pink dress that exposed her shoulders and neck. No make-up except a lick of lipstick. She was facing away from Solomon, but her profile was strangely familiar.

An uncanny deja vu descended.

Solomon froze.

She was the only girl in the room conspicuously not-staring. And her expression, strained and ill at-ease, stated that she dearly wished to be someplace else.

Which was exactly how he felt.

Unbidden, the 'dream' he'd experienced aboard the plane crept in. He saw again, crystal-clear, the bright chandeliers and brown eyes, little finger wrapped around his. Waltzing, whirling; everything sweeping round and round.

Solomon felt unaccountably breathless, as if poised at a sudden height.

Why do I feel so strange, looking at her?

Why does she seem so familiar?

Certainly, from this angle, there was a definite resemblance to Diva, though she did not seem confident, or graceful, like his Diva was.

Still, he found himself drinking her in with his every sense. His feet shifted on instinct, moving for her. Each step was so smooth, it was nearly like floating. An unseen cord attached to his sternum, drawing him relentlessly along.

Who...?

Who is she?

Then suddenly he was right before her. Amazingly, she was even prettier up close. Her hair shone like rich thick silk, the skin of her shoulders impossibly smooth. Solomon stared, dizziness descending like a hood over his head. One hand already extending, in a practiced invitation that seemed, in retrospect, to seal the rest of his fate.

And the words slid like liquid off his lips, as if he'd been rehearsing to say them to her, all his life and longer.

"Pardon me, but may I kindly have this dance?"

XP

Again, this was scrapped mainly because concluding a tale with an It Was All A Dream tangent strikes me as being a chickenshit-type ending. Either way, hope you guys enjoyed it! Oh, and review, pretty please! ;)